


Swimming at Lúnasa

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [2]
Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Gender Ambiguity, Irish Language, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Kissing, Other, RPF, Swimming, Tea, unspecified gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24916003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: Wind on sea and wave on ocean... and tea and kissing.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Character(s), Andrew Hozier-Byrne/You
Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839052
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	Swimming at Lúnasa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roosebolton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roosebolton/gifts).



> This is a follow-up to "Your Shape in the Doorway", but it stands alone and you don't have to read the earlier story (though I would love it if you did).
> 
> Thanks to rhysiana for a quick beta and to roosebolton for encouragement and [this picture](https://perfectpiety.tumblr.com/post/185000515009/karencowley-couple-of-ugly-mugs-after-a-sea-swim), which really inspired this story only I couldn't remember where I'd seen it.
> 
> For a wonderful musical setting of the Song of Amergin, try Lisa Gerrard's version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDYGIoPQGTQ).

There's a brown head sleeking through the water as smoothly and gracefully as a seal's. Even though the waves are kind of choppy, and the water is cold enough that you barely let it rush over your feet before retreating up the beach, the brown head is moving in a steady straight progress toward the shore.

Now you can see the arms moving--arms, not flippers. Although maybe you understand now the legends of selkies, faery beings able to shift between seal form and human form, able to walk on land but unable to lose their longing for the sea. You've been watching him bounce and frolic and swim in the water--the ocean--actually, the Irish Sea--for the last hour, and he's completely at home there, graceful in a way you've never seen him.

There was a glimpse of it when he did the photo shoot for his second album, diving into a pool to be photographed and videoed underwater. Seeing him today, though, has really been like seeing him in his natural element. You can imagine him hanging motionless underwater for hours, singing to an audience of whales.

His arms cut the waves, and suddenly he stands up, getting his feet underneath him. Head, shoulders, and chest come out of the water, streaming, and he pushes his hair back with hands that seem even larger than usual, as if they grew while he was swimming. He strides lightly up to the strand, bouncing a little with the incoming waves, and stands exposed for a moment in the afternoon sun.

Tall, a solitary tree against the horizon. His shoulders are broader than you would guess, his arms and legs pale as seashell. He's wearing a tank top and swim trunks, blue and grey, and that's as much skin as he ever shows outside the bedroom. He doesn't walk around naked at home; he doesn't even sleep naked. But there he is, the lean muscles showing, his arms defined by hauling and holding guitars, his legs by hours of walking, his nipples peaked and his shirt plastered to a tiny curve of belly. You like to lay your hand there, over that little softness covered with dark hairs that become thicker and coarser just inches below.

He pauses just long enough for you to take him in, wringing the excess water out of his hair. Then he's hurrying up the beach toward you, smiling, sunburn on his cheekbones and goosebumps on his arms.

You wrap your arms around your knees and watch him, smiling yourself, as he strips off the wet shirt and replaces it with a dry t-shirt. Kneeling, he pulls a windbreaker out of his pack, then a thermos, then a hat. The mass of wet hair gets tucked up under the hat--he's gonna regret that later. He wraps himself in the windbreaker and then cracks open the thermos, from which rises the unmistakable fragrance of hot tea.

The tea goes down milky and sweet, just the way you like it. You’re surprised he’s drinking it, too. “I didn’t think you drank your tea with milk?”

“Not when I’m singing, no. Bad for the throat.” It comes out “t’roat”, a quirk that never fails to charm you. “But I like it all right like this.” He smiles and sips, and so do you. 

The waves roll in and out, and you both watch them, listen to them, the soft susurrus over sand and rock, the occasional twist of seaweed left behind. Further out they are higher, crowned with white foam. Beyond the ninth wave, you think, something from your reading about Celtic folklore--beyond the ninth wave is the limit of the land.

Andrew sits up straight and holds out his cup toward the sea, then recites something in Irish. You don’t know what it is, but it sends a thrill up your spine that blooms like a flower in your brain. He can turn you on or make you melt with tenderness with just a look or a word, but at times he does something like this, that just seems like magic, like an enchantment. 

“What was that? It sounded like poetry.”

“’Tis.” He repeats the words, more slowly. “‘Am gaeth i m-muir, Am tond trethan.’ I am wind on sea, I am wave of ocean. The beginning of the Song of Amergin, the words that the poet spoke when he first set foot on the land of Eire. Amergin is the first poet of Irish tradition, the bard of the Milesians, who were the first mortals to come to the island.”

He looks ready to give a lecture, and you’re entirely ready to listen, but instead he breaks off, looking shy, and begins pawing after the snacks you brought. Not for the first time, you think that he is another of the bards of Ireland, the poets who could bless or curse with their words, whose satire was a terrible social penalty and whose praise shaped a legacy. But he’s also a perpetually hungry creature who burns off calories seemingly without effort--and come to think of it, you’re hungry, too.

“I can’t believe it’s August,” you mumble, between bites of cheese and slices of apple. “It’s so cool here. It’d be too hot and too humid to move back home.”

“Lúnasa,” he says, pulling off his hat and shaking out his hair. It has dried up into closer than usual curls, even ringlets, which he dispels by running one hand through the mass. “The feast of Lugh and his mother Taillte, how they won the fruits of the land from the Fomoire….”

You could honestly lie there all day, on a ratty quilt on the beach with the breeze coming off the Irish sea, the smell of salt in the air and on his hair and skin, the sound of the waves the most soothing sound you’ve ever heard, and listen to him talk about Irish lore and throw out Irish words and quote bits of obscure poetry. That’s why you come on dates like this with him, doing simple things instead of going to glitzy places dressed to the nines--not just because he’s a very private person and very few people even know about your relationship, but just because this is the kind of thing he likes to do.

He pauses suddenly and squints at you. “Sorry, I’m rambling again--”

“No, this is cool stuff--”

“You look like you’re falling asleep--”

“I’m not, I’m just very chill--”

“I’d rather do this right now--” And he leans in and kisses you, one long cool hand coming up to cup your face.

Oh. “That’s okay, then.” You kiss him back, brushing your fingers over his beard, and after a moment, he lies back on the quilt, pulling you down on top of him. You laugh into the next kiss and slip your arms under his shoulders, supporting some of your weight on your elbows while also letting you play with his hair. He kisses slowly and thoughtfully, his lips wandering to your cheek, your jaw, your throat, coming back to your lips, as his hands stroke slowly, not quite rhythmically, up and down your back.

This, too, you could do all day, while the waves whisper their eternal song.


End file.
